Fight The Power
by Chellifornia
Summary: Marcus "Boots" Collins is mad as hell, and isn't going to take it much longer. AU set in 1980s New York, a different take on the modern!fic.


_**Fight the Power**_

_A/N_:_ Hello, all! So, I got an idea for a Newsies fic; honestly, I'm not sure if I'll be able to follow through with it. It was just kind of a weird thing that popped into my head when I was inwardly complaining about the amount of modern!fic that's on here. I mean, no one has ever tried anything fun with an alternate time period?! Anyway, this is supposed to be a retelling of the Newsies strike in 1980s Harlem, with Boots and other secondary players playing a bigger role. Please excuse me to make some creative and historical licenses here and there, lol. Expect lots of political action, some relatively minor slash, classic rap music, drugs, and other such things. Sigh. Anyway, onto the fic!_

_Disclaimer__: I do not own Newsies, Good Times, or the Public Enemy song that inspired the title of this piece. Rave on._

As the summer heat streamed through the window and the morning, Boots cursed the sun.

He groaned as he rolled over in bed; the useless blinds cast hot shadows onto his slick, dark back. He could hear "Good Times" blasting on the T.V. in the next room and Jamesetta warbling along with Tina Turner. No place like home.

Like a clairvoyant, Jamesie burst through the door, her gate loping, her frame enormous, her eyes shining, and wooden spoon jangling inside a pot. God, her entire presence was _loud_.

"Bootsy! Bootsy, baby! Geddup, geddup, it's another beautiful day!"

He elicited another groan and blindly reached for his favorite Run-DMC t-shirt, mind already scrambling and planning the day.

With great difficulty, Boots stirred himself awake, allowing his vision to clear and his entire being to awake: first his arms, stretching over his head; then his tired, strong legs, walking purposely across the room to his dresser. Behind the hated blinds he could hear Crutchy doing his morning limp; his song of choice today was "Candy Girl" by that shameful Jackson 5 ripoff New Edition. Boots lamented the day he helped Crutch buy that stereo.

Already, Boots' well-organized mind began to dutifully filter out the various noises: a skill he had. Well, among others.

"_Candy girl, you are my world—"_

"_Left a good job in the city—"_

"_You look so sweet—"_

"_Workin' for the man every night and day—"_

"_You're a special treat—"_

"_And I never lost one minute of sleep, worryin' 'bout the way things might've been!"_

"Damn, Daamn, Daaaaamn, James!"

"_And now, for our commercial messages…"_

Boots sighed, looking in the mirror. The glass was slightly cracked in one corner, distorting his image; the one-elaborate gilt frame was warped from water damage. The entire room was a dump; depressing at first glance, the only thing about it that didn't make one want to slit one's wrists was the evidence of a youth living there: tapes and records strewn about, clothes spilling out of an antique armoire in an almost offensive way. This apartment was once an elaborate, upscale one before World War II. Now, forty years later, Boots noted with an ironic smirk, it was a fitting abode for a shiftless orphan in Harlem.

He stepped over his things and the mildew that had collected over the night due to rain; his adidas almost shined from his feet, his pride and joy, the one true light of his life. If Boots was the sensitive sort, he would've found something suspect about his shoe-adoration. But there was no room for contemplative thought in Boots' world. You get what you put in effort for, and even that had its limits.

As he crossed his room, he headed toward the door that lead directly into the kitchen, with Jamesetta cheerily bustling around the stove, looking for "fixin's", as it were. In one fluid movement, Boots whirled across the room, snatching up his pick, pocketing a twinkie, and depositing a kiss on his aunt's cheek. Without a moment's hestitation, without even looking away from her work, she called to him.

"Mr. Hollis said he was 'dissatisfied' with your present work," she sang to him, a scrumptious egg and bacon platter sizzling on the griddle.

"Hollis can kiss my ass," Boots grumbled, inching towards the door.

"Don't talk like that about Jeffrey, he's a nice man!" Jamesetta said reprovingly, simultaneously flipping a pancake and seasoning an omelette.

"Cheating your customers isn't a very nice thing, Jamesie," he intoned, unwrapping the twinkie surreptitiously.

"He does no such thing!" Jamesetta bellowed, finally whipping around and fixing him with a glare. "And you better hurry up to the garage unless you want what's coming to you."

"I doubt you'd be so kind, Ma," he said with an endearing smile. She continued to glare.

"Sonia's bringing the kids along today, seems she's got a new boyfriend—don't you smirk at me like that!—she's coming to see her beloved cousin, and I don't doubt she'd be upset seeing her flesh-and-blood let his duties go. I want you to make a good impression for me today, can you do it for me, sweetie? Don't go scaring him off again! And don't shake your head at me, young man, I know it was you, you ain't slick!"

He chuckled. He didn't care for much in this life, but when you had next-to-nothing in life, you make up for it where you can. And entertaining himself was one of those earthly pleasures he indulged himself in regularly.

He checked his watch. He was meeting Mush in the park today. It was just a hop and a skip and a jump to Central Park, and he'd be back in time to torment whatever poor soul his flighty cousin Sonia brought.

"You better be careful!" Jamesetta bellowed at his retreating back as he went through the door. "Remember what happened to Daddy!"

That familiar frown replastered itself to his face. He hated talking about his father. Even more than talking about his mother, and his other aunt, Marilyn. He creaked down the stairs of his big, old building. Once he reached the street, he slowed his gait to an easy walk, calmly planning the day.

Marcus "Boots" Collins was your average, low-rent sixteen-year-old in Harlem, so-named after the marginally more famous master of Funk, Bootsy Collins, and because he was only one in the family who could play the bass worth a damn. It was 1984. The United States was deep in the trenches of a cultural and political revolution, a time glamorized and pondered over by numerous people, none of them even familiar with the realities of the age. Life was rough, especially in the deepest corners of Harlem, where even the mighty visage of Ronald Reagan couldn't budge the drugs, crime, and general horribleness that thrived there. Boots wondered whether someday, in the future, people would know, and maybe the things that were important to him, like his music, or his friends, or even his crappy job would mean something then.

He kept walking; checking out the girls and watching the people go by. Boots liked to think that, if you squint and turn your head a little, his neighborhood looked almost like the one in Sesame Street, as strange as it sounds. Same quirky characters and strange happenings, and when he was little, he swore he saw Oscar the Grouch peer out of the Stathams' trash heap.

Finally, he came to the local news vendor down his block; Mush was there waiting, but there was a worried gleam in his eyes that Boots felt himself concerned over. Mush was the slightly more optimistic half of the pair, and Boots felt that that balance had to stay stable, for both their sakes.

"What's wrong, Mush?" Boots asked, leaning onto a GQ.

Mush shook his head, mouth dry. He pointed to a nearby newspaper. Boots peered over it: _NEW REAGAN MEASURE DESCRIBED AS A 'RETURN TO TRADITION': SMALL BUSINESSES EXPECTED TO SUFFER._

Boots blinked, then looked back at his friend. "So?"

"So!" Mush exploded unexpectedly. Mush was prone to random outbursts of excitement. Must have been the cost of being the even-keeled one in their friendship. "This cart—" He slammed a hand down on it—"counts as a 'small business', Boots! Christ, this is my dad's old cart, he wanted me to have it, but he didn't know nothin' about business, and neither do I! 'Sides…"

He gave a dark look at the coffee shop that was implanted there a few months ago. "Apparently that ritzy place sells comics and newspapers and 'periodicals' too. Seems folks like a Tiger Beat with their coffee these days." Mush slumped, and looked more miserable than Boots has ever seen him. "They're cleanin' me out."

Boots didn't know what to say. He'd be the first to admit that he was as shiftless and irresponsible as all-get-out. He was even planning to blow off the stuffy Mr. Hollis, his only source of income, and was planning to 'borrow' an enormous surplus of weed from his cousin Dereon and read comics for the rest of his summer. But Mush wasn't like that. He believed in the power of the almighty dollar, and worked hard for his money. Hell, he even worked his and Boots' end of the money, a fact that made Boots feel increasingly guilty.

"So what're you gonna do?"

Mush looked up, a determined look on his face. "When we're goin' to the park," he said slowly, measuring his words, "We're going to see Davey. Don't give me that look; David's my boy, and I don't want you to piss him off when we're there, like you do everyone."

Boots put a carefully blank look on his face to hide his distress. He waited patiently as Mush locked up, and they moved onward.

- -

Central Park was already filled with people, mostly kids their age. Skateboarding, laughing, discreetly sharing joints, and gossiping were common pastimes in the Park.

Mush and Boots met David on the bridge, right on schedule. David Jacobs was dressed smartly and pristinely, with new clothes that looked remarkably well-cared for. Boots appraised him, and a kind smile lightened David's face. Boots was prepared to hate him; David's dad was a partner for an all-Jewish law firm (Jacobs, Goldblatt, & Guildenstern) and lived on the Upper East Side, David himself could probably buy and sell Boots's rundown building a hundred times over. But the boy was maddeningly humble, and had a steady job hawking newspapers, of all things. That's how he and Mush met, actually. Mush was and always would be a great judge of character, and David was gold.

"David, we've got a bit of a situation," Mush said, his brown eyes beseeching. Boots didn't understand how he did it, but sometimes Mush was even more sympathetic than a little boy.

"I heard," David said gravely. He leaned against the railing. "It's horrible what they're doing. I heard the Hendersons have to close up shop soon. I suspected it would happen to you, too."

"But never for you," Boots muttered. Mush, who thankfully didn't hear the slight but recognized the tone, nudged Boots threateningly.

"We need your help."

David looked surprised. "Me? Why?"

"Oh, come on, Dave, didn't you say your parents had the Reagans over for dinner once? They're pals!"

"Not exactly," David laughed hollowly. "The Reagans are as 'traditional' as they come, and hardcore Christians. I wouldn't say they were 'pals'."

"But still," Mush implored, "Don't be modest in thinking that you're not the smartest guy in this city—" Here David grinned, "—and you could help us, I dunno, organize or something. I called up my other boys, and they're pretty pissed, too."

"Or, it could all just be a bunch of bullshit," Boots piped up casually. David and Mush stared at him. "Come one, guys, I mean, no offense, Mush, but it's just a cart, y'know? Reagan does shit like this all the time, it's not a big deal."

"Boots, they're closing up a lot of businesses, especially ones that cater to smaller neighborhoods," David protested, blue eyes wide. "This'll just siphon off more money into bigger corporations and to Reagan's new 'initiative', like throwing money at missiles will help the recession." Boots just granted him a dispassionate glare. Mush may be on his dick, but Boots didn't need some cake-eater to preach to him.

As if on cue, three boys who were, until that moment, muttering darkly to each other over a game of cards, got up and started toward Boots' little party. All of them looked haggard and dirty, and on their faces was the same tired, malevolent scowl that graced Boots' own features. Well, except for the short kid.

The shorter kid loosed a big grin and wrapped Mush in a hug. "Mush, man!"

Mush smiled and replied to him in kind. "What's up, Race?"

"Nothin' much," Racetrack said. His eyes darted playfully between Boots and David, his eyes settling on David and appraising him, seeming to recognize him. "Ya want me to take care of dis guy for ya, Mush?"

"Nah, man, we're cool," Boots said smoothly, allowing himself a small smile. Racetrack was an odd one; his parents owned a dress shop before they cacked it, now his brother owned it, and was doing a shit job of it. As a result, Race never seemed to like wearing the threads his contemporaries preferred, but the classy shirt-suspenders-tweed combo his parents used to hawk.

Racetrack stood between two marginally larger boys; the one with the darker scowl spoke.

"Ya hear the news, Mush?"

"yeah, Skitts, I did," Mush said, his tone serious and a dull gleam playing in his eyes. Skittery was always on edge, and right now his face was dark, his fingers twiddled the cigarette that was clutched there, and his hands shook. Skittery was _intense_ sometimes, what would you call it? _Passionate_. Boots wanted to slap himself for thinking of something so fag.

"Wanna crack some heads over this shit, Mush," Skittery said in a low voice, nervously tapping his foot. "The IRS came calling to my sister's place again. They can't just do this to us! Ron 'n' Nancy don't give a shit about us! It's all, what's it called, it's like trickle-down economics or somethin'…"

"Don't hurt yourself," Boots muttered. Mush gave him a warning glare.

"The boy's right, Mush, as eloquent as he sounds," the third boy said, his eyes magnified to almost three times their size by his dirty, old-fashioned glasses.

""That's right, Specs," Race said, sighing and looking more serious than he'd ever been. "Times is hard in New York today. Measures like these are just gonna hurt the people."

"Yeah," Specs agreed. "Looks like Gorbachev sees more of my money than I do…"

Mush was thinking deeply, a finger to his chin. "Hmmm, we'll need to round up Manhattan boys," he mused. "Maybe we could get Cowboy to help us." Murmers of assent echoed from the boys.

David gave a start, and rounded on him. "What about Cowboy?" He asked, a curious gleam in his eye.

"Well, yeah, he knows most of the boys, he could be a great help," Mush said, looking up at David curiously. "Why?"

"I'm just saying," David said, a faraway look in his eyes. "We used to sell at the same time."

Boots yawned hugely, fakely. "This has been _such_ fun," he said, giving them each a significant look, "But I have to be going. Hollis probably broke a blood vessel waiting for me to clock in."

- -

A little while later, Boots traipsed into _Hollis' Car and Mechanic Garage, _jangling his work key and pocketing a Coke from the refrigerator behind Hollis' desk. Hollis was nowhere to be found.

"Come out, you shiftless bastard!" Boots sang out, tripping over tires and oil sludge. He finally found Hollis, sitting next to a dilapidated '56 Buick, chainsmoking. Boots knelt down beside him.

"What's buzzin', cousin?" Boots said with a cheesy grin. Hollis looked straight ahead.

"Where—" He took a drag, "—The fucking hell—" Shakily blew out the smoke, "—have you been, Collins?"

His boss finally craned his head to look at him; his chin grizzled and unshaven, and his eyes wild, like he was on a bender or something. Boots wouldn't be surprised; Hollis looked crazy all the time.

"I was just out, scopin' the competition like you said, cuz," Boots said flippantly, but a tad uneasily. Hollis could be a bit…unreasonable at times like this. Oh, did he ever. "And I forgot what time I was supposed to be in for—"

"Forgot?!" Hollis suddenly sputtered. He stood up quickly, menace in his eyes, and his hands shaking. Oh boy. "You _forgot?_ God_damn_it, Collins, how long have you had this damn job?! Do you understand the rules? Do you? Doesn't seem like you know _anything_!"

"Hey!" Boots protested, wounded by this attack on his character. "Just listen—"

"I don't have to listen to a goddamn word!" Hollis bellowed. "Don't you know we're in a recession? Don't you know 'Reaganomics' is the name of the game now? Don't you know that _every-single-goddamn-day_ your ass isn't here, we lose money? _Every day _you forget to show up here, making me look like a fucking jackass, we're one step closer to the poorhouse, which is all very fine and good for _you_, but _I'll _be up a creek!"

Spit was flying from his mouth and Hollis looked more deranged than ever; Boots was backing away toward the door, but Hollis' stride matched his.

"I can't fucking take it anymore, Collins! I got receipts that don't add up, cars that can't fix themselves, and an assistant who won't assist!"

He wrenched a phone from the wall; Boots cowered in fear. Thankfully, Hollis crossed the room toward Boots' desk, and began pulling out the drawers. Boots protested. "Hey! What the hell are you—"

"I'm clearing everything out, calling my parts guy in Milwaukee to cancel, and kicking you out, you're fired. I've had enough of this."

"You can't take my stuff! You can't fire me, Hollis, come on!"

"Oh yeah? Fuck you, you're fired! Get the hell out of my garage!"

"I was only gone for a few days! Stop freaking out!"

"You shoulda been here, Collins! Now the economy's fucked, and you're still here giving me lip!"

A few hurried, expletive-laden minutes later, Boots found himself on the street. In a fit of petulance, he flipped off the flickering street sign that made up his former place of employment. Boots was breathing heavily and was even more pissed-off and impudent than ever. He was mad as hell, and didn't even know why. Pulling his jacket over his head, he stalked for home.

When he got there, he refrained from telling Jamesetta why he was home so early. She was setting the table for Sonia and her guests, Boots just sat at his regular seat and pouted.

"Have you seen Dereon today? I swear, you better tell him to stay out of trouble!" Jamesetta said, putting down plates and lighting candles. Boots groaned.

"He's _your_ kid, Ma…"

"God knows he is. And God knows he's gone and gotten a steady job and an apartment at the sweet age of nineteen, which is more than I could say for _you—" _here Boots' stomach clutched painfully, "—and yet, he still goofs off as much as you do!"

Boots slunk in his seat. Dereon possibly got into more trouble and partied harder than he did, but since his parents kicked him out and he got a real job busing tables, he was always the "responsible" one. The one Boots should look up to.

The door to the other bedroom swung open, and Boots smiled his first true smile the whole day.

"Boots, my boy!" Uncle Melvin swung into the room, all blustering, sequined glory, and wound his way into the small, scrubbed kitchen. He and Boots executed they're ridiculously complicated handshake; all fingersnaps, hip shakes, hand gestures, and fancy footwork. "How's it going, slick?"

"Same as always, Uncle Melvin," Boots replied, his grin widening. It was just like auntie Jamesetta to marry someone as wild and overbearing as she was. Uncle Mel used to be in a singing group back in the Motown age, and opened for James Brown at the Apollo years prior. But then he met Jamesetta (then a young, excitable groupie) and, in his word, "just couldn't say no". He loved James Brown, and would forever be a fan of his. Some days he thought it prudent to relive those days, if only to embarrass Sonia and amuse Dereon and Boots. Today, he was in an outrageous velour suit, his hair coiffed to perfection. Melvin was a character, of every sense of the word.

"Heard about Sonia's new boyfriend!" Melvin sang out, sinking into the seat between Boots' and Jamesetta's. "Ah, young love!"

He stood up suddenly and struck a pose. Boots laughed in anticipation. Melvin swept his arms around in a vague, performance-y way.

"_La la la la la la la la la means, I love you!"_

Uncle Melvin continued to sing the old Delfonics standard as a knock on the door noted Sonia's arrival.

"They're here!" Jamesetta cried, fluffing her hair and setting the last dish. She dashed to the door, distributed kisses and welcomes.

Sonia was Boots' older cousin and the most beloved of the family: she was twenty-nine and had two kids, and her first husband was killed in Vietnam after fragging his own officer. She was alone and weary, and had just moved out of the apartment where her parents and cousin lived, though the apartment was never short of visitors. She was still very pretty; always was, being the jewel of the family. Her tired eyes were alight as she clutched the arm of her new beau.

"Bootsy! Come and greet your family!"

Boots affixed a lopsided smile to his face as he hugged his little cousins, Damian and Kimberly. He looked up at the elder visitors as Jamesetta introduced them.

"This is my bad little nephew, Marcus, we call him Boots. Bootsy, honey, this Bryan Denton—he's a writer for the New York Sun!"

"Hello," Denton said, in a suspiciously friendly voice. Boots looked at him, amused. Sonia had brought in many strange characters from all sorts of different racial backgrounds (Her late husband was part black, part Filipino), but this was a first. He wondered what Daddy would say about this well-dressed, white "Writer-for-the-Sun".

Jamesetta showed them to the modest table, Denton at the head. Boots didn't like the way this outsider looked: He appraised uncle Mel with interest, as if taking mental polaroids of the average, "urban" home. Boots suspected he did that all the time, in his capacity of being a writer. And the way Denton and Sonia gazed at each other, like they were _so _in love, made Boots want to gag. Sonia was _so _in love with every guy she met. She was much too young for that menacing brute she married, and seemed desperate to find a new better half. It was kind of sad, really.

The table devolved into small talk, mumblings punctuated with little outbursts from the children. Suddenly, the new tax cuts were mentioned.

"It's just _awful_ what they're doing," Jamesetta sighed. "Three of my girls at the shop were laid off. I didn't know it would have such an effect…"

"It _is_ awful," Denton agreed. "Earlier this week, they put me on the field, interviewing major business owners. That was all well and good, but not one of them even mentioned the smaller businesses that would suffer."

"Denton's a humanitarian," Sonia chirped, throwing him a significant grin. Boots rolled his eyes. "He's trying to raise awareness and rally at Washington to instate protection for smaller businesses."

"It's a long road," Denton said, putting his hand over Sonia's. "But I'm sure it'll be worth it in the end."

Boots snorted. If this self-righteous bastard could think he could crib lines from Dr. King, he could think again. Jamesetta sent him a warning look.

"You should pay attention, Boots. Maybe you could join in, and I could talk to Hollis about your job."

"Don't bother," Boots said, then instantly regretted it. Everyone at the table looked at him.

"What do you mean, 'don't bother'?" Jamesetta said in a tense voice. Boots lowered his head. "I thought things were good with you and Hollis—"

"Well, they obviously weren't good enough, 'cause I got fired," he said curtly, staring into his mashed potatoes. Another tense silence.

"Really?" Denton said, suddenly interested. "I assume you're talking about Jeffrey Hollis, who owns that garage?"

"You 'assumed' correctly," Boots said mockingly. Denton continued.

"Well, seeing as you were directly affected by the events happening in the news, I was hoping—"

"This wasn't because of the news, it was because he was a miserable bastard who hated me because I ditched work all the time," Boots said, his voice and temper rising with every syllable. Sonia had a murderous look in her eyes, but Denton was as calm as ever.

"Well, I was just thinking," he said, looking Boots deep in the eye, "I could ask around kids in the neighborhood. Maybe my information could make a difference to the higher-ups."

"I'll think about it," Boots said warily. The tension dropped, and he silently contemplated while chewing his steak. Mush would like this guy, and he would like his ideas. In fact, Denton actually reminded him of Mush and David: relentless, and calmly intellectual. Boots had no doubt that Denton could coax anything out of anyone.

Later, when the food was eaten and the dishes were cleared, Boots' aunt and uncle bid their daughter goodbye, who sent them a shining smile behind. It looked like this Denton dude was going to stick around.

Boots prepared for his evening ritual: kick off his shoes, put on his favorite sweats, wheel in the T.V. so he could watch a midnight movie, and pop in his favorite Sugarhill Gang record. As the needle scratched over the familiar places, he vaulted onto his creaky, old cot, and settled himself in. He could hear Crutchy again, this time blasting Madonna's "Lucky Star", and Jamesetta and Melvin howling along to some old Chi-Lites tune.

He let his favorite record wash over him, as he flipped through the channels on the tiny T.V., singing along in places.

"_You don't stop_

_Rock the rhythm that makes your fingers pop_

_I said a-hip hop, a-thanks a lot,_

_Ah, c'mon, everybody, gimme what'cha got!"_

Boots allowed a grin to shine on his face. He watched a horrible beast menace an innocent girl as the needle danced on, and the echoes outside rang out to parts beyond.


End file.
